


Coming Home

by Bidawee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt, M/M, Slice of Life, Unhappy Ending, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 07:48:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16081673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: If you asked the news reporters, they’d say John had come home. A simple tour of the locker room spat in the face of a so-called “home.” They’d made sure he’d see it as more of a temporary residence; one stop on the way out the door.





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> this was in my drafts as the "everyone hates tavares fic"  
> as in, not hate, but john doesn't really have a good time in toronto

**Frederik Andersen**

It’s the goalie's personal responsibility to protect the team on the ice from any and all threats, it’s kind of in the name. As the last line of defence (and the person taking rubber disk to the face for a career) they had a sixth sense that extended from everything to what food would give a mutated form of morning sickness the day after to who was to be a nuisance and/or threat. John was well accustomed to stupid goalie antics and their “third-eye” so to speak,  but nothing had prepared him for Frederik Andersen and the absolute terror his should-be teammate would be not even a day in.

With that said, Freddie wasn’t a bad guy and the cause he fashioned was noble. Had John not been in his line of sight, he’d be right by his side talking about who to cut out as they threw back shots or whatever Freddie fancied the night of. The only problem is, he’s the one Freddie wanted to pull the trigger on, which complicated things from practice to where he sat for team breakfast. With everyone else Freddie was a darling too, a big squishy presence (despite what his form might dictate) that had beefy arms made great for long cuddle sessions.

Hugs weren’t really his thing but he’d take anything over the faint growling and how Freddie nonchalantly slashed him with his stick when John got too close to the net. He’d tried asking, poked and prodded Freddie after bad losses for answers as to why he was the black sheep of the herd but got back squat.

“Tell me what I can do,” he pleaded.

“It’s nothing you can fix,” Freddie said. “Just stay away from our team.” _Our team_ , like John hadn’t contributed as to why they’d rocketed up the standings. _Our team_ , like John was forever going to be an outsider incapable of owning up to his reputation and wearing the blue and white with pride.

Everyone else said it was growing pains, that he’d be able to come to an agreement with Freddie and they’d one day be good friends--or if not that, at least acquaintances. Somehow, he couldn’t see it. Freddie was clearly the gatekeeper that decided who was in and who was out. And he was out.

 

**Timothy Liljegren**

There was too much forward depth on the team, was the truth. Too much depth that to try and squeeze your way into the roster was hard enough without inexperience on the side was fighting a losing battle with the divines. Developing was all fine and dandy, but Babcock didn’t ease his words at press conferences, determined to let Toronto know his picks were unfit for the big races while Tavares sat, fat on the throne of compliments and prophecies of his future success.

Tension was already having problems being curbed at training camp and preseason meetups. It was a collection of somebodies and nobodies, all scrappy and ready to do whatever it took to make sure they made the cut. He’d trumped them all, and although he wasn’t going to apologize for the years spent honing his craft, it was causing inner difficulties he had to acknowledge sooner or later. It was especially reflective in the rookies and recent year draft picks that couldn’t grow stubble, much less hope to be the poster child of a franchise five times their age.

He wanted to be their friend and spiritual mentor, but Timothy was a perfect example as to how something out of his control had decided the playing cards in his hand for him. For every nice conversation they had by the water bottles at practice there was a press conference or interview that determined Timothy couldn’t compare. Sprinkled in with the "thanks man" and "have a good one" was the unspoken, "you took my place" said by Timothy in the quiet unknown.

They say sometimes you have to let friendships go. It was too bad they’d never got as far as a friendship and that John had had to front the barrage of bitter looks in the final days before the Marlies roster was decided. One honeymoon period absolutely wasted.

 

**William Nylander**

He was sitting in his living room sipping red wine as they talked about contract negotiations and the fate of Nylander; the predicament he was put in because of the budget they’d signed off on when John set the stage. It’d been Nylander’s team beforehand as one of the big three, and now it looked as though he would have to take an alternative elsewhere and finish his career in a city he’d not pegged his own.

And it was technically his fault. He didn’t need to talk with Willy to know there was resentment, didn’t even try. It was doomed from the time his pen ink carved out the seven-year contract.

 

**Morgan Rielly**

Captain negotiations were a pain in the ass but Tavares’ eventual rise to power also caused friction in places he expected people would sit quietly. One of those places was Mo’s little slice of heaven, his corner of the locker room that was flanked by the goalies’ and the new rookie placement. John had to walk by it every morning there was practice and grew accustomed to having Mo make small talk about the weather or previous game, all in good fun.

Although the tabloids and other forms of media didn’t touch on it as frequently as they might like, Mo was still a serious contender. He’d been with the Leafs longer than the others in the running and was the glue that stuck the defence together. Without him, all other teams had to do was skate through the holes in their swiss cheese barricades before opening up a shooting gallery on Freddie, and so the man’s perseverance was admirable.

Mo was a steady presence; no matter how much the younger players rocked the boat he was always reigning control back and putting them on track to hold a victorious mindset. As such, he was entrusted more responsibility than the average Joe and laid claim to an A early on in his career after a steady series of challenges he’d overcome.

Mo was a safe bet, someone John didn’t expect to make an enemy of, if that was even possible. Yet, even though Mo was cordially welcoming after Babs and Dubas came out with the candidate for captain, everything else changed. It was worse than having Freddie outright despise him from the word go. Mo was artificial after that, all fake-smiles and grimaces when he thought John wasn’t looking.

It got painful. The easiest thing to do was to let go and try not to mourn the death of what should have been a long lasting friendship and the benefits that came with it. Seeing as how Mo could be a fragile person inwardly, John couldn’t so much as walk near him with his jersey on--interviews were worse, Mo would just clench up and John was growing tired of saying “no comment.” The structural balance of the team had been sliced in two.

Whether it was because they caught wind of the awkwardness between them or they considered it a given, the team split after their nonverbal breakup.

And, as fate would have it, they all took Mo’s side.

 

**Mitch Marner**

There was one happy face throughout it all and that was Mitch.

Mitch was a glimpse of spiteful youthfulness, like a peacock flaunting both its fertile and playful nature. It came at the cost of those around him, who submitted like drones of committed hornets when he eyed them. Fancying Mitch was like shedding your sandals and walking barefoot into a venus flytrap expecting not to get bit and yet, John ran without question.

The danger for John was far more pronounced than it would be the patrons of a club because at least there it was mutually exclusive. Here, he was laying himself out bare hoping to entice someone leagues ahead of him. Mitch had his pick of the litter and John was just one of many candidates vying. He had to take every opportunity, overblown every interaction, and pray to God that his flirting wasn’t stepping over any personal boundaries.

The thing was, Mitch was excellent with feedback. A people-pleaser like himself technically shouldn’t be but if someone laid out carrots and he was craving the crunch of celery, he’d go make it himself. Mitch was the king of his own court and he didn’t need permission to do something on his own terms and that included love affairs. After all, with such outstanding chemistry on the ice, it was a no-brainer to extend the same courtesy to them in other positions too if he pressed hard enough.

So, John would walk the walk, stride after the team that’d give him the cold shoulder time and time again to seedy nightclubs and sit next to Mitch hoping the liquid courage would come and smack him on the head.

Most of the night was spent trying to drone out Auston’s useless commentary on the stragglers walking in and starting up a much better, more analytical take on their practices and what they could do to cut the excess energy of full rotation turns to maximize their potential. Mitch was a smart guy, he knew the ins and outs of the business and wanted to improve just as much as John did so that they could both hold that cup in their hands one day and do it with pride.

Freddie made continuous eye contact throughout the endeavour, shaking his head whenever John thought of something to pepper into the talks. The goalie’s endurance was exhausting but worse was how the team had already formed a protective shell around themselves that made him stick out. He was literally having a one person conversation in a seven or eight people (if they were cramming) booth.

The night tasted like champagne and disappointment, and that said nothing about how many openings were crucified because Auston couldn’t keep his mouth closed or Freddie inquiring about drinks or Mitch’s equipment for the eighth time in a single night. He wasn’t giving up though, persisting through adversity was what made character.

They’d worked together during drills until they were clad with sweat and would, with the exception of Hyman, have the dressing room all to themselves. Mitch took longer than most because of how focused he was on his phone, and John would look over and nudge him on when necessary to make sure they’d be out before the cleaning staff pulled around. Their little on-ice and dressing room relationship was mutual and appreciative before he’d gone and blown it, though from an outsider looking in they worked together like peanut butter and jelly.

It’d started with an invitation for dinner that he’d encrusted with a little charisma picked up from years out on the time. It was supposed to be something casual; if it became something more heated after than that was fine but he was content with a nice wine and dine. He’d specifically picked a business-casual locale with a great steak, talking about lineup decisions and their future games to play against Columbus. With his wallet on the line, he egged Mitch on to try the desserts and really sink his teeth into the rich food for a nice change in diet he was sure the kid’s body needed.

After, well, that’s when it all went to shit. He’d dropped a little invitation for a late night visit for canned beer and the Eagles game on television post-meal, but Mitch always had a jolly look to him that never really revealed his whole hand. So he wasn’t sure but not deterred, he waited until they’d exited the establishment all bundled in their long coats to spring it again.

“So, about my place tonight,” he said. “I’d love to have the company.” He didn’t elaborate, not wanting to scare the kid away. It would have to naturally progress when they got there, which he was fine with. Subtle touching was his forte, after all.

Mitch just laughed. Wind whipped by them and took Mitch’s scarf flying, rubbing against the too-big for his face teeth; the end results somehow still just as picture-esque as that of a catalogue model’s.

“Is that a yes?” he questioned with a turn of his head, stepping forward. “Please?”

“I mean, I have things to do. Plus, beer and cold pizza aren’t in the meal plan. Thanks for tonight though, it was fun. I’m glad we’re friends.” It put a large damper on the mood but John could pinpoint a few inklings of vulnerability to poke at in hopes of a change in an answer.

“We don’t have to eat or drink anyway. To be honest,” he stepped forward until he was in close proximity, “I was hoping we could have some time just to ourselves. I really like you and--”

Mitch blinked. “Okay,” he cleared his throat, “well, I hate to be the bringer of bad news but, I’m already with someone else.”

“That’s okay,” John laughed. “They don’t have to know.” He leaned in for a kiss but Mitch’s puffy-cheeked look was gone in an instant, replaced with a shocked expression that alienated him from the romantic setting they’d been flirting with.

“Woah, John, stop,” he said. “I’m not going to fucking cheat on him with you, are you crazy?” Mitch’s backpedalling almost put him in the middle of the street. A car driving by honked as loudly as humanly possible, taking them both out of the scene.

John withered. “But,” he gestured at the restaurant, “you came with me here.”

“Yeah, to eat dinner. And we did. It was great but I’m not going to give up everything. You’re,” his hands shook, “you. Our captain and leader. I can’t do anything with you.”

“Okay,” John exhaled. He wanted to be closer but didn’t want to chase Mitch onto the street, leaving them to meander on the sidewalk like a pair of fattened pigeons. “I just thought as teammates we’d be really good.”

“I thought you knew I was with Auston,” Mitch said, which was dropping an entirely different bombshell. John blanked.

“I--what?”

“Yeah.” Mitch spouted an awkward laugh. “We’re kinda new so don’t tell anyone but, you didn’t say anything when I was with Auston in your room. I thought it was kind of obvious and you were just being a good friend.”

“Friend,” John repeated. He remembered the instance Mitch was talking about, the hotel room after a particularly harsh game. He’d been dead on his feet, having trouble keeping his eyes open and Mitch had been a ray of sunshine. To think he and Auston were getting close and intimate in the same room he’d been fantasizing about having Mitch in his arms made him want to throw up.

“Yeah, you’re a good friend.” Mitch beamed, although it fell a second later. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be that person for you but what can I say? I’ll always be Auston’s.”

 

**Auston Matthews**

If you asked a typical fan what won over critics and elevated the team to the plateau of Stanley Cup winners and portraits of long-since retired legends, chances are they’d point at the analytics receipts and the number of goals, time on ice, and so on and so forth. It did place relative importance on on-ice ability and he wasn’t lacking in that. However, support, he had not.

Fans would smash on the plexiglass boards with all their might to convey their adoration but when the stadium lights dimmed and he was back in the locker room, it didn’t matter that he’d been fitted with a captain’s mark big and bright enough to chase away any doubt or confoundery. The team were like a cyclone wrapped around the finger of one such Auston Matthews, the original chosen one with a number on his shoulders and back that rivalled his letter.

It was clear from day one when the both of them were subject to media trailing on their heels begging them to answer the age-old captain question, that there’d be conflict. It was just a question of who would initiate, and John always intended to keep his head on straight because Auston was still a kid, and like a kid, he had some growing to do.

Yet, there were no encounters or arguments and still, resentment broiled. John would stack up goals so high they’d be lost in the rafters and his teammates didn’t care. Their celebrations were half-hearted little fistbumps that faded into obscurity as they jumped on Auston for his lone assist like dogs on bacon grease.

It was unfair, what it was. Auston wasn't captain. John had earned that title and the benefits that came with it but the kid was always one step ahead of him regardless with his token smirk that ate up half his face. John almost wished Auston would run with the gig and start his self-conceited little speeches to further plant John in the middle of his miserable little plot. It was better than moving in uniform fashion trying to pretend it was all fine and dandy as the locker room was stifled with the corpse of what should have been a stellar duo.

Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, his play deteriorated and was ate away by the vultures that were the sports media tabloids and online articles. They couldn’t put their finger on it but there was something fishy in the air, something that stemmed from John’s second-guessing when it came time for him to pass and how he’d jump five feet in the air when Freddie came barreling down the ice to harness control over their net. It was as though he’d lost trust in his team--true, but on so many levels false as well because he hadn’t been the instigator.

Auston didn’t even need to lift a finger and he’d successfully turned John against his own team. 

And he wasn’t even smug about it, just resigned. John tried, he really did, to dig in and force Auston to say something he shouldn't just for his own self-satisfaction; begging Auston to make a scene as he repeatedly slammed Auston up against the boards during scrums and stood as a foreboding presence in the younger man's stall. Just one single reaction would suffice and he was starving for it. He'd never been so obsessed with a single person before.

Radio silence. Nothing. The best he got was a small smile over lunch one day, when they were out with the team for second-hand sandwiches towndown. A smile and a simple little, "you're just not the captain we need," before he returned to his food, nudging a mayonnaise-covered Mitch with a clipped little laugh. He didn't need to say more, but John could sense something was still lingering. Lingering in Auston's cold, closed-off little language that could be extrapolated into a laundry list of accusations.

Not the captain they needed. Not the leadership role they wanted. Not the veteran the rookies deserved. Not the morally-high ground guy that wouldn't try to steal another man's boyfriend. And most importantly, not a Maple Leaf. Never a Maple Leaf. Just second-best.

Auston seized the title of highest goal scorer on the team and with it, took Mitch spinning on a record-high assist count. Their little relationship became ten times more obvious once John was made aware of them being an item, although it also might have something to do with Mitch’s hotel suite always being placed beside his, and Auston being a frequent visitor to keep the night young.

Hearing them get up to whatever it was they did in the privacy of the four walls made him want to vomit; he was absolutely rabid with jealousy even if it made logical sense for their age. That opportunity was supposed to be his to claim, yet, he was the third wheel. He was the bystander. He was the one sitting in the back when the team celebrated birthdays. It was so, terribly lonely.

They had a really good year too. His addition promoted some league-wide quivering when the Leafs showed up on the opponent board. It was just too bad that, when he looked behind him at centre ice, he was completely alone, almost as if it was like an endless shootout he’d never truly score on.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk with me @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr!


End file.
